persistence
by highboys
Summary: Prussia's not okay. Hungary is oblivious. Everyone copes in their own ways.


**Title:** persistence  
**Fandom:** Axis Powers Hetalia  
**Characters:** Prussia/Hungary, Germany

The technical definition of obsessive-compulsive disorder is that anxiety is triggered by obsessions to prevent or induce a compulsion. When Ludwig read this aloud, Gilbert had smirked, showing teeth, and said, "sounds exactly like you."

Ludwig coughed, and busied himself by rearranging the stack of post its on his desk at a neat, precise 5 centimeters from his paper clips. "Aren't anxiety disorders simply manifestations of traits themselves?"

"What are you talking about?" Gilbert said, looking up from counting the number of _fleur de lis_ on the pattern of the nearest pillow.

"Nothing," Ludwig said, turning back to his book, and Gilbert scowled, turning the knob four times before going out.

Persistence is a symptom. The inability to reject intrusive thoughts from not fulfilling certain rituals is a differentiation.

* * *

Do you believe that disorders are hereditary?

Even before psychology was born, he'd been cleaning his sword in a repetitive fashion that Elizabeta might have laughed at, only he'd chalked it up as a ceremony than an obsession. Ceremonies had _punishments_ afterwards. It was enough of a reason to fear it.

How, then, would he explain the unsettling thoughts that polluted his mind after he'd lost count of how many times he'd locked and unlocked the front door? The fear was that there would be an unwelcome intrusion, but it didn't help his sleep depravation, didn't set things _right_.

Gilbert looked at himself and thought, ah, father is the culprit.

He looked at Ludwig and thought, no, it is only you.

The question was if externalities - if the necessary preconditions - were still in place, and if these cultivated and engendered this trait, was there no way out?

Gilbert looked at Elizabeta and thought, I depend on you.

"But I can't be your brother's therapist," Elizabeta explained. "It doesn't work that way."

_I don't have a license, for one, and it would be unprofessional to play that role and_ a thousand reasons followed this line of thought. He'd heard it in his mind before he'd even asked why. Elizabeta referred him to someone else, instead, someone more humanistic, more prone to unconditional positive reinforcement than she could ever be in front of him, and he let the paper rest in the pocket of his coat, crumpled and unfolded it until the ink started to wear off, before he threw it away.

"It's lost," he told her, the next time he saw her, "I lost it." Lost what, exactly, he couldn't say. Lost the will to tell her it wasn't his brother who had a problem, lost the nerve to stop.

"You're irresponsible," Elizabeta said, but the truth was that he was only a liar, nothing more, nothing less.

* * *

Could we say that liars are, by nature, antisocial? That the ability to feign authenticity, or genuineness, is already a practice of noncompliance, no, of indifference, to social norms and customs, to the society at large. That selfishness is a farce is a weakness is an unresolvable crisis in the developmental stage?

Waging war is the solution of a rational actor, and sometimes of a psychopath. Gilbert has waged war and conquered lands several times, and it was two-thirds need, one-third desire, to want to extend territory and breach demarcations, geographic lines in the upward curve of Elizabeta's brow, in the faint redness of the tip of an ever present flower. He'd been overreaching since he learned how to wield a sword.

We beget things against our better judgment, perhaps.

No, not judgment. The hem of Elizabeta's dress brushed against his calf under the table, and he thought of the skin underneath, if it would be marred with scars. If it would be rough, like soil, or the bones underneath the layer of flesh.

It was only want.

* * *

"High heels," Elizabeta said, apropos of nothing, by way of a greeting. Gilbert shifted in his position, rested more weight on his other foot as he leaned against the bedpost.

"What?" Gilbert said, and Elizabeta took a seat on the edge of her bed, kicking her legs in the air.

"They're better for men, apparently," Elizabeta said. Gilbert stooped down to toy with the strap of her sandal, to tie it around his finger, then unravel it, then tie it again, one, two, three more times, just to soothe the anxiety in his chest. Repetition did wonders to his soul.

"Oh?" Gilbert asked, a little distracted when Elizabeta kicked his hand away, not hard enough to bruise, but still forceful enough that it smarted. His fingers twitched, task undone. "How so?"

"Your body frame's more suited to it," Elizabeta said, leaning over to retie the strap. "Something about posture."

"Posture," Gilbert repeated, still doubtful.

"Great," Elizabeta said, exasperated. "I just fixed this."

Gilbert stared at Elizabeta's hands, the protrusion of her knuckles, the visible veins across her wrist. Small parts he'd known with his own hand, with his mouth. He'll have to find something else to busy himself with, later, if only to settle the tension coiling in his stomach. Washing his hands with soap sounded like a good idea, even when it was too early for dinner.

Oh. There it was again. "Good" ideas that she'd said were nothing more than... What was it?

"Sorry," he said. Elizabeta looked at him, thoughtful.

"It's only a sandal," Elizabeta said. "You've never apologized for worse things before."

"Sorry," Gilbert said, again, and left to find the nearest sink.

_Destructive_. That was the word.

* * *

He'd kept his hands behind his back, when he visited her, next. Then a pair of gloves, even on a warm day. She didn't suspect, and even when he'd taken off the gloves to wash his hands before eating, she'd said nothing. She frowned at his hands, and stood to get the antiseptic from the medicine cabinet.

"A fistfight," Gilbert lied, and Elizabeta still didn't ask even if she knew it was impossible to get those wounds from fighting. Gilbert hid his hands in his pockets, counting the steps Elizabeta took, the seconds in between her every exhalation. Did she judge him now, for his weakness? It wasn't his fault.

"I'm," _not okay_, "fine. Everything's just peachy."

The anxiety was still there.


End file.
